Elfland

by Freda Warrington

  “Sam,” said Lawrence. “Yes, yes of course.” Reaching him, his father clasped his shoulders at arm’s length. A proper embrace wasn’t his style. Sam studied his face. He looked more gaunt and aquiline than Sam remembered, his grey eyes remote, like some lonely dark tyrant in a folktale. “I would have fetched you, if you’d let me.”

  “It’s okay, Rosie came for me.” Sam felt a pang as he spoke her name. “Anyway, I won’t be staying. Just came to say hi and see how things are.”

  “Of course you’re staying,” Lawrence replied. “You’re home. We’re not letting you go anywhere. Are we, Sapphire?”

  Sapphire came forward cautiously, as if approaching a dangerous dog. “We wouldn’t dream of it,” she said smoothly, touching his arm. “Welcome home, dear.”

  Her surface was serene, her manner warm and polished, but underneath she was brittle china. She’d never liked him; she couldn’t phone the police fast enough, that night, and see him handcuffed and taken away. Relief and triumph had emanated from her. Now her seething discomfort was equally tangible. Sam smiled at her. She instantly broke eye contact, seamlessly shifting her gaze to his father.

  “Well,” said Lawrence. “Make yourself at home. Your room’s ready for you as always.”

  “I’ll make coffee,” said Sapphire, whirling away to the kitchen. The heavy dark swing of her hair made him think about Rosie’s hair, and the rest of her . . . he sighed. He’d definitely been locked up for too long.

  When she’d gone, Sam relaxed a little. There was something wrong, he knew—you could slice the tension with a cake knife—but then, there was always something wrong at Stonegate. It was normal. His homecoming suddenly felt ordinary, an anticlimax. “This is so weird,” he said, looking around.

  “I know,” said Lawrence, looking gravely at him, “but we can put it all behind us now, can’t we?”

  “I don’t want to sit raking over it for hours on end.”

  “Neither do I,” said his father, the master of brooding silence. “It’s over. We won’t speak a word of it unless you want to.”

  They looked at each other for a moment or two, but neither of them was good at that and Lawrence was the first to break the gaze, clearing his throat as he turned away. “Suits me,” said Sam. “I’ll go and dump my bag. Is Jon here?”

  “I believe he’s upstairs,” Lawrence answered.

  Jon was in his room, sitting cross-legged on a chair at an open window with his back to the door. He was smoking a reefer. The smoke drifted around him in lacy layers. Sam sat down silently on his bed and watched him for a couple of minutes.

  “Hey, asshole.”

  It was worth it to see Jon levitate in shock. He swung round violently, staring. Sam was startled to see how rough he looked; eyes sunk in bruised skin, hair uncombed.

  “Oh my god, Sam.”

  “I’ve escaped. You’ve got to hide me.”

  “What?”

  The panic in his eyes was priceless. Sam spoiled it by starting to laugh; he couldn’t help it. Jon sighed and grimaced. “For fuck’s sake, Sam! You frightened the hell out of me! Jesus!”

  “Well, you know, it’s time for the reckoning now. I’m out, and I’m not going back—unless I do something really stupid, like killing my brother.”

  Jon unfolded his long legs and stood up, putting the palms of his hands out. “Look, Sam, I wanted to visit you. I really did. I just couldn’t face it.”

  “Relax. I understand. It was no fun there; anyone would have freaked out. Thanks for sending Rosie instead. Come on, sit down.”

  “No, you don’t understand.” Jon turned paler, shaking. “I couldn’t come because it was my fault that guy broke in. You don’t know how bad I’ve felt, what it’s been like for me . . .”

  “Like I said, I understand,” Sam replied, low and firm. “You’re a prat, but you didn’t invite him to come and rob us, did you? If you feel bad about it, that’s up to you. But I’ve never blamed you. Sit down, idiot.”

  Jon obeyed, sitting on the end of the bed at right angles to him.

  “So, how have things been here?” Sam asked. “What’s up with Morticia and Gomez?”

  “Just the usual.” Jon drew nervously on the spliff.

  Sam beckoned, and Jon passed it to him. Sam took a drag and nearly choked. “Christ, what are you smoking? So, have you managed to sneak through the Gates yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Still trying, though?”

  Jon’s eyes burned with sudden life. “I tell you, Sam, if the Gates had been open, no prison could have held you.”

  “Well, I spent at least sixty per cent of my sentence in Dumannios and that held me quite nicely, thank you,” he said quietly. Needling Jon was a habit all too easy to slip into. “Have you contacted Mum? Any messages from beyond?”

  Jon ducked his head. “No.”

  “I appreciated the photo, anyway.” Sam tried another drag, and his head whirled. “Bloody hell, Jon, what is this?”

  “Just weed.” Jon took the joint back.

  “Keep it, it’s disgusting.” Sam reached out and clasped his bony shoulder. “You ought to knock it on the head, you know. You look bloody awful. If Dad smells it, he’ll go nuts.”

  “I’m fine. It’s just . . . you don’t know what it’s been like. Everyone thinks I don’t care about you, but I do. Dad’s under pressure about the Gates, and Sapphire . . .”

  “What?”

  Jon shook his head, grimacing. “The more Dad shuts her out, the more curious she gets about Aetherial stuff, and now she seems to think I’m her passport through the Gates. Pestering me with questions, wanting to go up to Freya’s Crown with me . . . It’s nothing to do with her! It’s mine, it’s private, she’s got no business interfering. And she’s going behind Dad’s back.”

  “Oh, and you’re not?”

  “It’s different. I’m allowed to rebel. She’s not, it’s grotesque.” Jon drew in smoke, held it, blew it out. Sam watched, disturbed, wondering what dark tangle lay under the surface.

  “Tell her to sod off, then.”

  “It’s not that easy,” Jon murmured. “You haven’t been here, and it’s been awful without you.”

  “That’s nice. Never thought you’d miss me for two seconds.” Sam grinned. “Hey, I’m back, mate. Home sweet home.”

  “Yeah. Thank the gods.” They shared a quick, awkward hug. Jon felt too thin, as always.

  “By the way,” said Sam, trying to sound offhand, “did you know she’s getting married?”

  “Who?”

  “Rosie.”

  He looked blank. “No.”

  “She didn’t tell you?”

  Jon made a movement between and flinch and a shrug. “I don’t think she’s speaking to me. She and Luc came up here, let me think, about six months ago. Out of the blue she went crazy at me, and I’ve no idea what it was about. I haven’t seen either of them since.”

  “Ah. Maybe not long after I told her about your sideline in herbal medicine? Don’t deny it. News travels. You were at it in school, anyway.”

  Jon glared at him. “Thanks. What she didn’t know didn’t hurt her—now she’s stopped Luc seeing me because of it? That was my best friend you’ve driven off!”

  “Well, I’m sorry,” Sam said sharply. “I was sick of covering for you, trying to protect Rosie’s feelings because she believed you were a saint. She deserved the truth. Now she’s marrying this friend of her brother’s.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “Don’t you care?”

  Finally Jon reacted, catching and holding Sam’s gaze, a frown line indenting his forehead. “It’s none of my business. What’s it to you?”

  Sam jumped up and paced on the threadbare Indian rug. “If there’s one thing that is your fault, it’s this.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s your fault she’s marrying some jerk! You broke her heart!”

  “What? When? What are you on about?”

  “She’s in love
with you, you dolt!”

  Jon looked affronted. “No, she isn’t.”

  Aware he was close to shouting, Sam lowered his voice. “Maybe not anymore. I don’t know. But she was, and you treated her like she didn’t exist. You could have had the most wonderful thing in the universe and you didn’t even notice. You prick!”

  Jon was wide-eyed. He put out his hands. “This is not my problem. Yeah, she used to follow me around, but lots of people did. I never gave her any encouragement. I didn’t even know.”

  “No, that figures.” Sam rubbed his forehead. “You have got to help me stop her getting married.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. Go and tell her you’ve been an idiot, beg her not to go through with it. Tell her you love her.”

  “But I don’t.” Jon looked bewildered. “Sam, you need to calm down.”

  “Please, I’m desperate.”

  “Why me?”

  “She’ll listen to you.”

  “No, she won’t. I tell her a load of lies and then what? Oops, sorry, didn’t mean it? And if she was with me instead of this other guy, how does that help you?”

  Sam leaned on a chest of drawers, head in hands. “Yeah. I’m going nuts. But how can you not?”

  “How can I not what?”

  “Love her.”

  “Fuck it, Sam, I don’t know. She’s just little Rosie, she’s great, but I don’t fancy her. I liked that blond friend of hers, Mel? But you know what, I can’t do girlfriends, I can’t stand people fussing over me.” He shuddered. “I just want to be left alone.”

  Sam took a deep breath. “You’re going to be more left alone than in your wildest dreams, at this rate.”

  “Look,” Jon said, his voice hardening, “if you’ve got the hots for Rosie, it’s your problem, not mine. I reckon this is all because she’s the only female you’ve seen for three years.”

  Sam slumped back onto the bed, defeated. “Yeah, that’s what it is.”

  “Go in any pub in Ashvale tonight and you’ll pull any woman you want within ten minutes.”

  Sam shivered in distaste. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, but all I’m interested in is Rosie. I’m screwed, aren’t I?”

  “You’ve definitely been in prison too long,” Jon said sagely. “We all have.”

  “Fuck the fantasy,” Rosie said to her reflection.

  Two hours until the ax fell. She looked down at her hands and wondered if she had time to paint her fingernails. Against the dark oak of her dressing table, her splayed fingers were pale and still.

  “Steady as a rock,” she said. “That’s good. I can do this.”

  Her dressing-table mirror reflected a serene ivory face, grey eyes bright and inscrutable beneath plum-shadowed lids. Her hair was swept up with pearls and lilies; pearls encircled her throat and stiff ivory silk clasped her shoulders. She looked immaculate. Definitely a siren today, and no hint of scruffy gardener. Her face was expressionless and she felt calm. Outside her bedroom window, the greens of late summer were brushed with September gold. She could smell bonfires.

  “Rosie?” A gentle knock and her father came in, smiling warmly. Her heart lifted. “Where’s your mother?”

  “Gone to panic about flowers, I think,” said Rosie. “Dad . . .”

  She held out her arms and he came to hug her, very delicately so as not to disturb her hair and makeup. His kind face beamed into hers. She basked in the solid glow of his presence, the clean earthy smell of his aftershave, so familiar. As long as her father was there, everything was fine.

  “I can’t believe it,” he said. “You look quite the princess.”

  “You’re not going to cry, are you?” Rosie said sternly. “They’ve got me dressed too early and now I daren’t move. I should have stayed in my dressing gown, downing sherry with Auntie Phyll.”

  He chuckled. “D’you want a drink? You’re bound to be a bit—”

  “I’m not nervous. I’m really not.”

  “That’s marvelous. That’s a sign that you’re really sure.”

  “I am,” she said firmly.

  “And you look wonderful. Hang on, a quick photo . . .”

  “I feel a complete dog’s dinner,” she said, giggling as the camera flashed. The small digital image on the camera’s screen showed a perfect bride; petite in her tasteful silk dress, smiling radiantly. It looked like someone else.

  “Let me take one of you, Dad,” she said, wanting to keep him there, her guardian to ward off the future.

  When he’d gone, Rosie looked around her familiar bedroom with its dark antique furniture and the Waterhouse prints on the walls. She would be sad to leave. The big bed had never hosted the wild demon sex she had often fantasized about. Sad.

  One hour until the ax fell. On the landing she could hear chattering voices; Jessica, Phyllida, Faith and Mel . . . If only they would keep talking and let her have this last island of time alone. She contemplated a suitably bland oyster-pink nail polish, but a mischievous impulse made her choose the dramatic, oily rainbow of Zeitgeist.

  It was a small act of rebellion. She sat back and grinned at the multihued gleam of her nails.

  “All right?” Matthew poked his head around the doorway. “Can the best man come in and wish the bride luck?” He strolled in, statuesque in his dark suit; a fair-haired prince. He stood grinning down at her, nodding slightly, hands stuffed into his trouser pockets. “You scrub up quite well. At least you resisted the temptation to let out your inner masked goddess and scare the crap out of Alastair’s family.”

  “What?”

  “I mean, you chose a nice conventional dress. Suits you.”

  “Sod off.” The words came out more angrily than she’d expected, but Matthew’s attention flew to her hands.

  “You are joking,” he said. “You can’t get married with black fingernails! What the hell are you doing?”

  “It’s not black. It’s any color you want, in the right light.”

  “Typical. You can never do anything normal, can you?” He looked at his watch. “Want me to pierce your lip with a safety pin before we go? Still got time.”

  “Shut up.” Rosie bit her tongue until the urge to retort had died down. “How’s Alastair?”

  “Fine, apart from dashing to the loo every five minutes.”

  “Oh god, he’s that nervous?”

  “Shitting bricks,” Matthew said delightedly. “I offered him whiskey, told him it got me through my wedding day, but he says he can’t swallow.”

  “Why’s he in such a state?” Rosie felt irrationally guilty.

  “Because this means everything to him.” Matthew leaned down to her, his eyes narrowing with sincerity. “Alastair’s a fantastic bloke. This is absolutely the best thing for you, Rose. A full life in the real world.”

  Half an hour until the ax fell. Her mother floated in and out, golden and beautiful in a white hat with pale roses, tearful but collected. Mel and Faith appeared in their bridesmaids’ outfits with Heather—a tiny angel in a halo of flowers. Mel was teasing Faith for being even more excited and panicky than she’d been on her own wedding day.

  Rosie sat patiently as her nails dried and her family drifted in and out. Lucas pulled up a stool and sat at the dressing table beside her, leaning on his elbows. He was sweet; he didn’t fuss like the others, just wanted to be near her. She said, “The way everyone’s coming in and out, it’s like being visited on my deathbed.”

  “Hence the gothic fingernails?” he said with a lazy smile.

  “It’s symbolic of the multicolored Aetheric spirit,” she said wryly.

  Lucas only looked at her with a mysterious half-smile. After a minute he said very softly, “Are you sure about this?”

  “Well, I’m stuck with it. You don’t think I’m organized enough to possess nail polish remover, do you?”

  “Not that,” he sighed impatiently. “I meant . . . you know . . . getting married, it’s huge.”

  “I can’t back out now,” she sa
id lightly.

  “Rosie . . .” He reached out and touched her neck. “I can see the scar. Only because your hair’s up.”

  She leaned towards the mirror, putting her fingers to the reddish line. She found a tube of concealer and passed it to him. “Mum missed it. Would you?” She sat patiently as Lucas dabbed makeup onto the scar with a fingertip, his tongue protruding a little in concentration.

  “There,” he said. “Invisible.” She resettled her necklace and the scar was gone. The milky beads felt warm against her neck and a single pearl teardrop lay on her breastbone. The picture of icy perfection was complete.

  Princess for a day, she thought, staring at her unfamiliar self.

  I feel like the King of Elfland’s daughter, marrying my father’s most favored knight. Everything is as it should be.

  I’m a gardener with dirty fingernails.

  I’m just me. Which is—what?

  “Car’s here!” her mother’s voice sang from the landing.

  “You’re quiet, Rosie,” said Lucas. “Are you scared? It’s only Alastair.”

  “I’m not quiet, I’m serene.”

  “So what are you thinking about, then?”

  Rosie breathed in and out. “The future,” she said.

  Here it came, the fairy-tale wedding with tumbling sprays of lilies and the eager strawberry-blond-not-ginger bridegroom in his kilt and a new future in the surface world. No more Wuthering Heights with its deranged inhabitants, she thought. We are all smiling and going forward.

  The few hours in her bedroom had been her last oasis of peace. The moment the wedding limousine came, she was cut adrift.

  The venue was a Georgian mansion refurbished as a conference and wedding center, all marble majesty with cascades of white flowers. It was like every dream wedding there had ever been. There was Alastair, handsome and trembling, the archetypal nervous bridegroom; there were his uncles and cousins from Aberdeen in their kilted finery, and all, Alastair included, a clan of strangers.

  Rosie drifted though the ceremony as if tranquilized. She seemed to be witnessing the proceedings from outside; a disembodied spirit, watching a serene, composed young woman making her promises before the registrar. When Alastair kissed her, she hardly felt his lips on hers. It all floated past like a play.